Chapter 3 - The First Crack in the Armor
The silence that followed my question wasn't the comfortable quiet of a corporate boardroom; it was the suffocating stillness of a trap springing backward.
Marcus blinked, his carefully cultivated expression of benevolent mentor flickering for a microsecond before he smoothed it over with a light, dismissive chuckle. He leaned back in his leather executive chair, crossing one ankle over his knee.
"State licensing registration?" Marcus repeated, letting out a breath that sounded like a dry cough. "Clara, sweetie, we aren't a mom-and-pop employment firm. Sterling & Vance is a private international consultancy. We operate under corporate umbrella exemptions governed by federal interstate commerce acts. We don't need a state retail broker license to sponsor an H-1B candidate."
Beside him, Leo shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his hand twitching toward his collar as if it suddenly felt too tight.
In my past life, I would have nodded, intimidated by the legal-sounding jargon, assuming my ignorance of corporate law was the problem. But during the four years I spent rebuilding my life after the prison nightmare, I had taken paralegal night classes and spent hundreds of hours studying immigration statutes in the public library.
"That's interesting, Mr. Vance," I said, my voice level, steady, and carrying an absolute lack of the naive tremor he was expecting. "Because according to Title 8 of the Code of Federal Regulations, Section 214.2, any entity acting as an agent for third-party placement of non-immigrant workers must maintain an active state employment agency bond and a registered Department of Labor tax ID specifically tied to alien labor certification."
I tapped my legal pad with my pen.
"I checked the Illinois Department of Labor database this morning at 7:00 AM. There is no record of Sterling & Vance holding an active employment license. In fact, your corporate filing status was dissolved for tax delinquency eighteen months ago."
Marcus’s face didn't pale; it darkened into an ugly, mottled red. The grandfatherly warmth vanished completely from his eyes, replaced by the cold, sharp calculation of a scam artist whose mark was suddenly talking back.
"Where did you hear that nonsense?" Marcus snapped, his voice losing its velvet polish and dropping into a harsh, metallic rasp. He slammed his hand flat against the walnut table. "You've been listening to bitter internet forums, haven't you? Let me tell you something about the real world, Clara. You’re a foreign national with a ticking clock over your head. You don't get to audit us. We are the ones holding the key to your entire future in this country."
Leo cleared his throat, looking frantically between his uncle and me. "Marcus, hey... let's just calm down. Maybe she just has some questions—"
"Shut up, Leo," Marcus snarled, his gaze never leaving my face. He leaned forward across the table, invading my personal space. "Listen to me, Ms. Evans. You sign page twelve of this agreement, you wire the five-thousand-dollar administrative processing fee to our escrow account, and we file your visa by noon. If you walk out of these doors, your student visa expires in three weeks, ICE will be notified of your unlawful status by sunset, and you will be on a cargo flight back to a country with zero tech industry to speak of. Do you understand me?"
It was the threat. The exact same threat that had broken me last time.
In my past life, hearing those words had made my stomach heave. I had felt the panic clawing at my throat, blinding me to everything else.
Now? Sitting across from a cheap con man in a rented suit?
May you like
I felt nothing but cold, crystalline fury.
I picked up my pen, opened the thick stack of papers he had provided, and flipped straight to the signature page.
